I.
This isn't the wind in the willows
nor that of the eucalyptus
nor even the wind that brightens sails
and moves the slow windmills.
Nor is it the wind that moves the clouds
in summer's calendar
nor the dawn's wind
rising with the birds.
Brothers, sisters
this is not the song of autumn
nor the warbling of lovers
who make love by moonlight.
This isn't the song of snow crystals
nor the alternating dance of day and night,
nor the slow rhythm of your breath
and my breath . . . listen:
II.
It is the voice of the cities sick to death
--of steel sheets, rods and blocks--
the ubiquitous motor and the discord
of an epoch that's falling apart.
It is the trite humming that finds
an echo of change in the Apocalypse
the kingdom of speed
and the crossed signs of time.
It is the insensate noise of industry
--the factories exploited past reckoning--
traces of rot and insidious gases--
the factories, not you or I.
III.
Uproar, friction and mist amid the machinery
--hideous shriek of this empty age--
in this bottomless barrel. It is
the international tongue of usury.
The new universal tongue:
esperanto of infamy
--wires, axes, chains--
the age of iron knows no other voice.
IV.
But the descent can't go on forever
because even noise has its limits . . . listen:
this is not the wind in the willows
nor that of the eucalyptus . . .
-- Alberto Blanco, trans. Julian Palley (dedicated to Gabriel Macotela)
